rgia rose higher
and higher, like a spirit mounting the skies. The words were indistinct,
but Angelique knew them by heart. She had visited her aunt in the
Convent, and had learned the new hymn composed by her for the solemn
occasion.

As they listened with quiet awe to the supplicating strain, Angelique
repeated to Le Gardeur the words of the hymn as it was sung by the choir
of nuns:

"'Soutenez, grande Reine,
Notre pauvre pays!
Il est votre domaine,
Faites fleurir nos lis!
L'Anglais sur nos frontieres
Porte ses etendards;
Exauces nos prieres,
Protegez nos remparts!'"

The hymn ceased. Both stood mute until the watchman cried the hour in
the silent street.

"God bless their holy prayers, and good-night and God bless you,
Angelique!" said Le Gardeur, kissing her. He departed suddenly, leaving
a gift in the hand of Lizette, who courtesied low to him with a smile
of pleasure as he passed out, while Angelique leaned out of the window
listening to his horse's hoofs until the last tap of them died away on
the stony pavement.

She threw herself upon her couch and wept silently. The soft music
had touched her feelings. Le Gardeur's love was like a load of gold,
crushing her with its weight. She could neither carry it onward nor
throw it off. She fell at length into a slumber filled with troubled
dreams. She was in a sandy wilderness, carrying a pitcher of clear, cold
water, and though dying of thirst she would not drink, but perversely
poured it upon the ground. She was falling down into unfathomable
abysses and pushed aside the only hand stretched out to save her. She
was drowning in deep water and she saw Le Gardeur buffeting the waves to
rescue her but she wrenched herself out of his grasp. She would not be
saved, and was lost! Her couch was surrounded with indefinite shapes of
embryo evil.

She fell asleep at last. When she awoke the sun was pouring in her
windows. A fresh breeze shook the trees. The birds sang gaily in the
garden. The street was alive and stirring with people.

It was broad day. Angelique des Meloises was herself again. Her
day-dream of ambition resumed its power. Her night-dream of love was
over. Her fears vanished, her hopes were all alive, and she began to
prepare for a possible morning call from the Chevalier Bigot.

CHAPTER XVII. SPLENDIDE MENDAX.

Amid the ruins of the once magnificent palace of the Intendant, massive
f